My life with Ozzy Osbourne.
THE week I spent working for Ozzy Osbourne was one of the most amazing of my life.
What? You don't believe I worked for the legendary rocker? OK, you'd be right. But I was once mistaken for a member of his entourage.
A few years ago, way before MTV's The Osbournes introduced us to him and his remarkable, often dysfunctional, family, I happened to be in San Antonio, Texas, at the same time as the great man himself.
More than that, it seemed Ozzy, his family, and the band were ensconced in the same hotel.
I didn't know this until two teenage Texan girls began trailing me around in the mistaken belief that I could introduce them to their hero. They'd been hanging around the hotel lobby, heard my English accent, and assumed that I was part of the Osbourne entourage.
They accosted me in the lift, told me they were "two of Ozzy's greatest fans", and asked me if I was going up to his room. I pleaded ignorance, and, to be honest, was so out of the loop on head-bangers I wasn't even sure I'd recognise him if I'd met him over the breakfast buffet.
But they had logic on their side: I was British, Ozzy was British, we were staying in the same hotel, and I had just pressed the button to go up to the penthouse.
Actually I had pressed the button for the floor below the penthouse, having been unexpectedly upgraded when I checked in. But no amount of protesting was going to change their minds because, to get to the "exclusive" top two floors, residents had to use a lift accessible only to holders of a special key. I had one, Ozzy had one ... you get my drift.
Undeterred, the teenage rockers followed me out of the lift, across the corridor and to the door of my room, where they begged me to let them meet their hero, just for a minute.
I was tired, hot and hungry, and there was a frozen margarita with my name on it on the bar downstairs, so I opened my door wide to let them see its very ordinariness - no sleeping rock stars, no guitars, no wild party aftermath.
The most rock and roll thing there was my discarded straw cowboy hat on the bed. "Now do you believe me?" I said.
They didn't. So I'm afraid that I resorted to the only thing I could think of.
I told them that, if they didn't leave immediately, I was going to get one of Ozzy's "security guys".
They looked at one another, then at me, and retreated to the lift and back down to the lobby. I was too weary to feel guilty. Besides, at least they now had a story to tell the folks back home.
I never did meet Ozzy, didn't even see a trace of him, not even a decapitated bat in the hallway. But my new stalkers continued to hang out in the lobby just in case.
That wasn't my only temporary brush with fame.
I once spent 10 days on a coach tour through California trying to convince the little Australian girl on the seat next to me that I wasn't "Muriel from Muriel's Wedding". I'm not convinced she ever believed I wasn't.
And, thanks to a misunderstanding on the telephone, I once had to explain to a magazine editor that no, I wasn't the daughter of Lord Rippon of Hexham.
Mind you, even people I know have mistaken me for someone else, or rather someone else for me.
I was once "spotted" in the Oak and Acorn at Oakwood; a pub I've never visited.
"You were drinking a G &T and chatting up this bloke," I was told.
"I certainly was not, I don't even like G &Ts!" I protested.
"Well it was definitely you."
At first I was annoyed that this person thought I was so vacant I wouldn't even remember where I'd spent my Saturday night. Then I began to panic.
What if I had a Doppelganger? My double might, even now, be out there drinking G &Ts and chatting up strange men, or, worse still, committing some heinous crime that might someday be attributed to me.
Then I remembered what my Nana used to say about doubles; that encountering your own was a harbinger of some terrible fate.
What if I met this mystery person? We live in the same town so I might just walk into her in the middle of Top Shop.
I managed to shake myself out of my superstitious paranoia, but I made a mental note never to stray into the Oak and Acorn … just in case.
PUBLISHED IN THE DERBY TELEGRAPH ON THE DATE OF THIS POST
11 March 2008
22 February 2008
Embrace technology – but don't forget your memorable word
Embrace technology – but don't forget your memorable word
THE wonders of modern technology mean we can access everything at the touch of a button. But woe betide you if you forget your memorable word...
I Spent a long time waiting in the bank last week. I'd managed to lock myself out of my account trying to use the internet banking service.
Eighteen months ago, it had all sounded so wonderful. They had promised checking my balance, transferring money and arranging direct debits could all be done without going into a branch or standing in a queue.
And yet here I was, waiting in one. The officious computer interface had informed me that I had incorrectly entered my passcode, so I'd had a friend oversee my next attempt. But the interface decided that was wrong too. And then that it was wrong a third time, even though I had a witness to prove otherwise.
Clearly the bank's own system had a problem, so I was happy to ring the "helpline". It was then I fell foul of my own disorganisation. The irritatingly cheery lad on the other end of the line asked for my "memorable place" and my "memorable word". The trouble was they weren't terribly memorable at all - I couldn't even remember having set them. Slightly embarrassed and utterly stressed, I panicked and gave him the likely answers. It had all been going so well up to that point. But now, impossibly cheerful lad informed me that one of the answers had been wrong.
He couldn't tell me which one. No, I couldn't have a second guess. And now he had to lock me out of my bank account. I would have to present myself, in person, with photo ID, at one of his branches, if I ever wanted access to my paltry fortune again.
Subsequently, come first thing on Monday morning, I found myself waiting in my local branch behind a nice Polish family opening their first account, while I cursed all technology and my faith in it.
My inability to remember my memorable place and word, of course, was now paling into insignificance by comparison with my ire at the faulty automated system. By the time I emerged from the bank, my passwords reset and my money accessible once more, I was ready to abandon all electronic devices and throw in my lot with the technology-eschewing Amish people of North America (although I seem to recall even they had credit card terminals in their gift shops).
It wasn't to be because, by the time I got home, I'd used the ATM, paid by chip-and-pin in Tesco, texted home to explain why I was running late and, although I knew what time it was due, monitored my bus's arrival through its newly-installed Star Trak information system. I'd even entertained myself during the journey home with some soothing music on my iPod.
Of course, it's not the technology that's the problem; it's our reliance upon it. Unless you're a fellow gadget geek, you probably won't understand this, but as far as I'm concerned, life without the internet or mobile phones has become unthinkable.
Last year, a fault with a BT line caused chaos in our house. We had no phone line and no internet. No internet, of course, means no e-mail and I just knew that the only really urgent e-mail I had ever received was waiting, right then, to pop up in my inbox, in need of an immediate reply - if only I could get to it.
I couldn't do any work either because my access to the outside world had been cut. It was two days before I remembered the encyclopaedia on the shelf behind me. But gadgetry is just so much easier - and a lot more fun. I remember vividly the entire family gathering around to watch the first-ever cycle of our tumble dryer.
My mum treats the computer as if her every tap of the keyboard might unleash nuclear Armageddon, but she happily Googles for her lace-making supplies. My dad, who is so naturally suspicious of new devices that he waits until he has observed someone else successfully using them for at least a year before he will buy in, actually gets more texts in a day than I do.
As a lover of the latest technology, I use self check-ins at airports, and self check-outs at supermarkets. But I'll admit that even I was bewildered by the automated public toilet I encountered in Stockholm. From the light, the door mechanism and the seat warmer - yes really - to the flush, the soapy water and the hand dryer, everything was automated. For me, it was a step too far. There are some things that are just better done manually. Anyway, how does it know when you're ready for the next stage?
That said, even our cats are microchipped, which means that their temperatures can be taken without the usual indignities.
So, embrace technology, book some yoga lessons - and make sure you make a note of those memorable answers.
PUBLISHED IN THE DERBY TELEGRAPH ON THE DATE OF THIS POST
THE wonders of modern technology mean we can access everything at the touch of a button. But woe betide you if you forget your memorable word...
I Spent a long time waiting in the bank last week. I'd managed to lock myself out of my account trying to use the internet banking service.
Eighteen months ago, it had all sounded so wonderful. They had promised checking my balance, transferring money and arranging direct debits could all be done without going into a branch or standing in a queue.
And yet here I was, waiting in one. The officious computer interface had informed me that I had incorrectly entered my passcode, so I'd had a friend oversee my next attempt. But the interface decided that was wrong too. And then that it was wrong a third time, even though I had a witness to prove otherwise.
Clearly the bank's own system had a problem, so I was happy to ring the "helpline". It was then I fell foul of my own disorganisation. The irritatingly cheery lad on the other end of the line asked for my "memorable place" and my "memorable word". The trouble was they weren't terribly memorable at all - I couldn't even remember having set them. Slightly embarrassed and utterly stressed, I panicked and gave him the likely answers. It had all been going so well up to that point. But now, impossibly cheerful lad informed me that one of the answers had been wrong.
He couldn't tell me which one. No, I couldn't have a second guess. And now he had to lock me out of my bank account. I would have to present myself, in person, with photo ID, at one of his branches, if I ever wanted access to my paltry fortune again.
Subsequently, come first thing on Monday morning, I found myself waiting in my local branch behind a nice Polish family opening their first account, while I cursed all technology and my faith in it.
My inability to remember my memorable place and word, of course, was now paling into insignificance by comparison with my ire at the faulty automated system. By the time I emerged from the bank, my passwords reset and my money accessible once more, I was ready to abandon all electronic devices and throw in my lot with the technology-eschewing Amish people of North America (although I seem to recall even they had credit card terminals in their gift shops).
It wasn't to be because, by the time I got home, I'd used the ATM, paid by chip-and-pin in Tesco, texted home to explain why I was running late and, although I knew what time it was due, monitored my bus's arrival through its newly-installed Star Trak information system. I'd even entertained myself during the journey home with some soothing music on my iPod.
Of course, it's not the technology that's the problem; it's our reliance upon it. Unless you're a fellow gadget geek, you probably won't understand this, but as far as I'm concerned, life without the internet or mobile phones has become unthinkable.
Last year, a fault with a BT line caused chaos in our house. We had no phone line and no internet. No internet, of course, means no e-mail and I just knew that the only really urgent e-mail I had ever received was waiting, right then, to pop up in my inbox, in need of an immediate reply - if only I could get to it.
I couldn't do any work either because my access to the outside world had been cut. It was two days before I remembered the encyclopaedia on the shelf behind me. But gadgetry is just so much easier - and a lot more fun. I remember vividly the entire family gathering around to watch the first-ever cycle of our tumble dryer.
My mum treats the computer as if her every tap of the keyboard might unleash nuclear Armageddon, but she happily Googles for her lace-making supplies. My dad, who is so naturally suspicious of new devices that he waits until he has observed someone else successfully using them for at least a year before he will buy in, actually gets more texts in a day than I do.
As a lover of the latest technology, I use self check-ins at airports, and self check-outs at supermarkets. But I'll admit that even I was bewildered by the automated public toilet I encountered in Stockholm. From the light, the door mechanism and the seat warmer - yes really - to the flush, the soapy water and the hand dryer, everything was automated. For me, it was a step too far. There are some things that are just better done manually. Anyway, how does it know when you're ready for the next stage?
That said, even our cats are microchipped, which means that their temperatures can be taken without the usual indignities.
So, embrace technology, book some yoga lessons - and make sure you make a note of those memorable answers.
PUBLISHED IN THE DERBY TELEGRAPH ON THE DATE OF THIS POST
11 February 2008
Clowns and jugglers and mimes, oh my!
Clowns and jugglers and mimes, oh my!
A RECENT study by the University of Sheffield, into appropriate decor for children's hospital wards, concluded what I could have told them long ago: clowns are scary.
After a personal life-long terror of those whitened faces, drawn-on smiles and enormous flapping feet, I can vouch for it.
And I'm not alone. Coulrophobia, to give clown-fear its proper title, is one of the most common phobias on the planet. Three years ago, hundreds of residents of Sarasota, Florida, a town with a proud circus heritage, successfully campaigned to prevent the erection of 70 giant clown statues around their hometown on the grounds that they were terrified at the prospect.
Theories abound about just why these red-nosed entertainers are so frightening. I, for one, don't recall being traumatised by someone dressed as a clown, and I'm not convinced that it stems from not being able to gauge a clown's real feelings. They're just plain creepy.
I do know that I was already a phobic when my parents took me on my first circus visit. And I recall vividly the disappointed and bewildered look on my father's face when his little girl burst into tears at her first sight of his big-top favourites.
You'd think the advancing years would have cured me. If anything I've got worse. I've tried to find comfort in the experiences of others and logged on to scores of anti-clown websites. On ihateclowns.com there is even a forum on which coulrophobics can blog about their own experiences; another website offers clothing and accessories with anti-clown slogans. But none of this has cured me.
Any claims I might have to a genuine phobia, however, are pooh-poohed by friends, who claim that I'm just being miserable. You see, I'm also one of those people that squirms at the mere mention of "street entertainers". I know what you're thinking, but let me try to convince you otherwise.
Take mime artists - and I wish someone would. What could be more irritating? All that "help me, I'm stuck in a box" play-acting just winds me up. I mean, just how many times can you watch someone struggle with an invisible balloon?
It baffles me that someone would want to spend all day doing Marcel Marceau impressions when they could be doing anything else. But then again, the website worst-jobs.com regards mime artistry as "ideal for theatre artists who can't sing, or act, or remember lines".
There exists, believe it or not, an I Hate Mimes Club. And there have been some pretty high-profile mime haters too. A character in a Terry Pratchett book outlawed miming and punished exponents by forcing them to climb an invisible ladder out of a scorpion pit while reading a sign saying: 'Learn the words'.
I don't even think they're all that popular. Be honest, when you see mimes in the street, how many people are standing there watching?
It's the same with jugglers. Is there actually a point to juggling? The World Juggling Federation is an organisation dedicated to "promoting the sport of juggling to a worldwide audience". Juggling as a sport? I'm not even convinced it's an entertainment.
How hard can it be? The average 9-year-old girl can do it. Anyone can learn to juggle, surely? OK, not me, obviously, because I have absolutely no co-ordination, but it would seem to be within the reach of those with even basic motor skills.
There are other forms of silly street performers, too. Stilt-walkers, for example. As a child I could walk on stilts, quite competently as it happens, but they don't impress me either.
Acrobats are amazing, of course, and trapeze artists and tightrope walkers too.
Fire-eaters are also impressive, but, on the other hand, once you've seen one .... And just how do you find out you can do that without setting yourself alight?
I don't think it's so much what these street artists do that bothers me, it's that they choose to do it at all.
There you are, minding your own business, when suddenly, out of nowhere, appears a smart-alec on a unicycle, ambushing you into his performance, making you part of his act whether you want to be or not.
Then there are the street musicians. Not the gypsy violinists, flutists and classical guitarists, who can all add wonderful ambiance to a street scene. I'm talking about the ones with the didgeridoos. The ones who leave you wishing they didgerididn’t.
PUBLISHED IN THE DERBY TELEGRAPH ON THE DATE OF THIS POST
A RECENT study by the University of Sheffield, into appropriate decor for children's hospital wards, concluded what I could have told them long ago: clowns are scary.
After a personal life-long terror of those whitened faces, drawn-on smiles and enormous flapping feet, I can vouch for it.
And I'm not alone. Coulrophobia, to give clown-fear its proper title, is one of the most common phobias on the planet. Three years ago, hundreds of residents of Sarasota, Florida, a town with a proud circus heritage, successfully campaigned to prevent the erection of 70 giant clown statues around their hometown on the grounds that they were terrified at the prospect.
Theories abound about just why these red-nosed entertainers are so frightening. I, for one, don't recall being traumatised by someone dressed as a clown, and I'm not convinced that it stems from not being able to gauge a clown's real feelings. They're just plain creepy.
I do know that I was already a phobic when my parents took me on my first circus visit. And I recall vividly the disappointed and bewildered look on my father's face when his little girl burst into tears at her first sight of his big-top favourites.
You'd think the advancing years would have cured me. If anything I've got worse. I've tried to find comfort in the experiences of others and logged on to scores of anti-clown websites. On ihateclowns.com there is even a forum on which coulrophobics can blog about their own experiences; another website offers clothing and accessories with anti-clown slogans. But none of this has cured me.
Any claims I might have to a genuine phobia, however, are pooh-poohed by friends, who claim that I'm just being miserable. You see, I'm also one of those people that squirms at the mere mention of "street entertainers". I know what you're thinking, but let me try to convince you otherwise.
Take mime artists - and I wish someone would. What could be more irritating? All that "help me, I'm stuck in a box" play-acting just winds me up. I mean, just how many times can you watch someone struggle with an invisible balloon?
It baffles me that someone would want to spend all day doing Marcel Marceau impressions when they could be doing anything else. But then again, the website worst-jobs.com regards mime artistry as "ideal for theatre artists who can't sing, or act, or remember lines".
There exists, believe it or not, an I Hate Mimes Club. And there have been some pretty high-profile mime haters too. A character in a Terry Pratchett book outlawed miming and punished exponents by forcing them to climb an invisible ladder out of a scorpion pit while reading a sign saying: 'Learn the words'.
I don't even think they're all that popular. Be honest, when you see mimes in the street, how many people are standing there watching?
It's the same with jugglers. Is there actually a point to juggling? The World Juggling Federation is an organisation dedicated to "promoting the sport of juggling to a worldwide audience". Juggling as a sport? I'm not even convinced it's an entertainment.
How hard can it be? The average 9-year-old girl can do it. Anyone can learn to juggle, surely? OK, not me, obviously, because I have absolutely no co-ordination, but it would seem to be within the reach of those with even basic motor skills.
There are other forms of silly street performers, too. Stilt-walkers, for example. As a child I could walk on stilts, quite competently as it happens, but they don't impress me either.
Acrobats are amazing, of course, and trapeze artists and tightrope walkers too.
Fire-eaters are also impressive, but, on the other hand, once you've seen one .... And just how do you find out you can do that without setting yourself alight?
I don't think it's so much what these street artists do that bothers me, it's that they choose to do it at all.
There you are, minding your own business, when suddenly, out of nowhere, appears a smart-alec on a unicycle, ambushing you into his performance, making you part of his act whether you want to be or not.
Then there are the street musicians. Not the gypsy violinists, flutists and classical guitarists, who can all add wonderful ambiance to a street scene. I'm talking about the ones with the didgeridoos. The ones who leave you wishing they didgerididn’t.
PUBLISHED IN THE DERBY TELEGRAPH ON THE DATE OF THIS POST
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